Chapter 85

*Campus IF Line — “Bullying”*
At that age when he was almost—but not quite—grown, there was a contradictory maturity about him: worldly, yet not cynical. The projector’s drifting blue light outlined the boy’s sharp silhouette; his upright, clean-cut brows and eyes carried a touch of unruly languor.
He leaned back at an angle, long legs with nowhere to rest, one hand laid along the edge of the sofa—encircling her in a subtle, unmistakable way.
It felt as if the gaokao had only just ended, and yet he had already been remade.
She was still unripe—like an ignorant little girl—while he had already stepped into the adult world’s arena of reputation and gain.
He waited on the far side like a silent temptation, luring her to push open that forbidden door with her own hands.
The thick, vertical velvet curtains sealed the room tight. In the small space, all that remained was the projector’s vague, mechanical hum.
An unnameable intimacy churned in the air.
Qin Sang’s body leaned into his chest; she could clearly feel the boy’s scorching warmth.
She stared at him, lost in a daze, and swallowed nervously.
“Sang-sang…” The breath drawing closer and closer invaded her senses without restraint. Her mind was muddled, her body soft and boneless, unable to resist; even her voice trembled. “Mm…”
“Do you want to try?”
His voice was low and indistinct. In the dark, the only thing she could make out was those deep yet clear eyes—no longer as restrained as before, but carrying something faintly dangerous. Brazen, bold, they swept over her territory inch by inch.
Like an elegant leopard, his gaze roamed at an unhurried pace, claws passing over the fragile line of her throat.
And she was only a bird in a cage, prey that had stumbled into a trap—nowhere to hide, nowhere to flee. She could only be held, forced to expose her weakest point.
The hand at the back of her neck—cool at the fingertips—stroked slowly along the tender skin of her throat.
Qin Sang looked at him blankly. Her skirt clung to her curves like a budding daffodil—shy, hiding its core, only daring to stretch out trembling petals in tentative warning.
It was as if he didn’t need her answer. His gaze and his breath had already told her what it would be.
When he dipped his head closer, Qin Sang instinctively shrank her shoulders. Her vulnerable shoulder and neck were already completely in his grasp; she had nowhere to dodge.
As if noticing her unease, he asked patiently, his voice low and magnetic: “Are you scared?”
Qin Sang pressed her lips together. The glossy lip glaze felt uncomfortable, as if her mouth had been stuck shut; she couldn’t even open her lips properly.
She dug her nails into her palm. After a long moment, she finally tried—little by little—to set down her guard. Her chin lifted slightly. She closed her eyes.
What did kissing feel like?
In the complicated, monotonous days of high school, under suffocating pressure, there were occasionally secrets you couldn’t speak of.
Secrets that belonged only to girls—private things that could never be said aloud.
Liu Chengcheng had said, “Sang-sang, did you know? A girl in Class Seven got mixed up with a guy from the vocational school, and her parents were called in. Last time the two of them went on a date at a nearby internet café, Director Qiu caught them red-handed. They said when he caught them, they were kissing.”
“So what does kissing even feel like? Is mouth-to-mouth really that powerful? Powerful enough to make people lose their minds?”
Qin Sang shook her head and said she didn’t know. Before this, the closest she ever got to a boy was standing next to one another in the lunch line.
But after entering high school, what she and Xie Yuncheng had done had already shattered her understanding of boundaries.
That pitch-black day, when they secretly held hands behind everyone’s backs—until the lights flared on, and in that instant, fingertip in palm, skin pressed to skin—it felt like being lightly shocked. A thin current ran from her fingertips, stirring wave after wave of numb, prickling tingles.
And now…
What was she doing now?
The dimness magnified every breath. The projector had long since stopped, the image frozen on some unmoving frame—and her mind froze with it.
Her tightly shut eyelids quivered uncontrollably. Damp lashes fluttered; her brows drew together faintly, as if in some silent resistance.
Her breath was taken from her inch by inch. She knew she shouldn’t—yet she sank into it, lucid in her surrender. It was like the instant their souls touched, like positive and negative poles meeting in sudden resonance. The current surged through her limbs and bones; the numbness climbed from her spine, sweeping slowly across her scalp.
The heat of breath was like a tightened cocoon. The sound of inhaling and exhaling grew heavier and heavier, and seemed to be mixed with something else.
Dazed, Qin Sang thought: did someone leave a faucet not fully turned off?
“Sang-sang…”
Hm? Someone was calling her name.
Qin Sang hazily lifted her lashes. Her vision was murky. In the corner of her eye, all she could see was the man’s cool, clean features. He seemed very hot; the desire in his eyes was like a beast trapped in a cage, roaring without sound. Perhaps out of inexperience, that long tail lashed and fanned; sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Your lip glaze…”
“What?” he asked, voice low.
Qin Sang mumbled indistinctly, “It rubbed off.”
The light nude gloss, shimmering, had transferred from her mouth to the edge of his lips, blending into a vivid stain.
She had no awareness of it at all. Her knees bent slightly; the soft, close-fitting dress rode up, revealing the slender lines of her calves. Her small feet pressed into the plush carpet; she wore no nail polish, her rounded toes tinted with a natural pink sheen.
She giggled. “It tickles.”
His short, soft hair brushed her chin, swept her neck, skimmed her chest. When the stray strands slid over her skin, they raised wave after wave of itchiness.
But it also seemed like something else. She reached up to scratch by instinct, but it didn’t help at all—like the itch was rising from somewhere deeper.
In her confusion, she tried to cling to something. Her fingers ran through the short hair—soft, like the puppy Xiaoyan had once picked up.
He didn’t seem to like keeping his hair long. As soon as the gaokao ended, everyone started to let go and indulge.
Liu Chengcheng dyed her hair pink, braided it into thick twists. The class monitor imitated a recently famous male celebrity and styled the hair he’d finally grown out into the same look.
Trends swept through their little group in an instant. In the short months after graduation, everyone looked less like themselves.
She didn’t change. She stayed routine, the way she’d always been—spending summers in Ningjiang, hiding under the old locust tree in the courtyard; going with Xiaoyan to the nearby pond to watch the uncle next door fish; the granny at the alley entrance handing her a huge watermelon from her yard to bring home and share.
Sand-flesh watermelon—bright red—black seeds embedded in the flesh. Lying on a bamboo mat watching the stars, cicadas humming lazily in the shade.
One star, two—sparkling. Like what? Like his eyes.
His eyes were light brown. Under the shifting screen glow, they looked like fireworks at full bloom.
Without thinking, she reached out to touch. Her fingertips skimmed his eyelids, the bridge of his nose. The gloss smeared along his lips felt prickly, a little rough.
Maybe it was stubble, shaved very short—hard to feel unless you touched carefully.
Qin Dahai shaved every day, circling his face with foamy cleanser. When she was little, she didn’t understand and thought it was whipped cream.
She would poke at it; Qin Dahai let her—until she grabbed a handful and tried to stuff it into her mouth, and he panicked.
“Baby, this isn’t edible cream. It’s shaving foam. See? Daddy’s face is prickly now—uncomfortable, right? Once it’s shaved clean, it’ll be fine.”
…
“I’m not comfortable.”
Qin Sang spoke softly, tucking her head as she tried to dodge away.
She didn’t know if it was his shaved-down stubble or the brushing hair, but it scratched at her until even her soul felt restless.
“Where are you not comfortable?” Xie Yuncheng asked, hoarse, patient.
Qin Sang couldn’t explain it. She frowned, a little petulant. “It’s itchy. And it feels… like it’s pressing on me.”
“Where is it pressing? Here? Or here?”
His voice was lazy, almost amused—like teasing a little cat about to bristle. Wherever his cool fingers tapped, a tremor rippled through her. Her body shook, her heart wavering.
Qin Sang bit her lip, miserable but unable to describe it. Helpless, she looked at him with damp, shining eyes. A foggy mist pooled in them, until even his face blurred.
In the haze she heard a faint sigh, tinged with helplessness. “Sang-sang, if you don’t tell me, how am I supposed to know where you’re uncomfortable?”
He was doing it on purpose.
At last Qin Sang’s muddled mind caught the flavor of it. He was pushing his advantage, lifting the long hair that fell along the edge of her neck; the thin strap lay against her narrow shoulder blade.
“You’re bullying me.”
Only then did she realize how bad he was—long past the line of “first base.”
Even her accusation was soft and powerless, thick with nasal tone, more like she was acting spoiled.
His answer was a low laugh. Half held, half carried, she was guided onto his lap. His long, slender fingers slowly combed through her falling hair.
The laughter that resonated through his chest made her ribs tremble.
“Mm.” He admitted it calmly. “Sang-sang, I’m bullying you. And I want to bully you more.”
She understood little, knew nothing. The few ideas she had about boundaries between men and women were all things she’d heard secondhand.
Eighteen—naive, tentative, guarded in a fragile way—was simply too easy to break.
She was tender like fruit just ripening, still raw with unfamiliarity, yet irresistibly soft and juicy.
She didn’t know how to breathe properly. She didn’t know how to refuse.
Passive, letting him take what he wanted; sometimes, foggy-headed, she would probe back—like a silent plea.
“Sang-sang, you look very pretty today.”
Different from her usual self, she wore a pink dress; her hair had been curled on purpose. Maybe she wanted to look more mature—yet her brows and eyes were still young, carrying a half-understanding confusion and helplessness that made people want to… bully her.
The compliment caught her off guard. In an instant, she forgot her protest. Shyly, she lowered her lashes and tugged at the hem, unaware that the dress she considered so expensive had already been wrinkled from being kneaded.
He used a gentle, negotiating tone—testing, asking—while his body kept her penned in with unmistakable force.
His brows and eyes were still clean and gentle, as if coaxing her softly to open Pandora’s box.
“Sang-sang, stay… okay?”